Forgiveness Comes With Patience (AmericaxJapan)

Chapter One-A Brewing Storm

Alfred's point of view
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Every time my boss has called me out of the blue, it's never been for a good thing. Sometimes it's about taxes skyrocketing in certain states, someone violating the policies on interstate trade, rising suicide rates, or other stuff of that sort. And nine times outa ten, the only way to fix these issues is to change my lifestyle or do something that will sound stupid to you and other people like you, but actually affects the whole lot of you humans. One time, when the taxes in New Jersey skyrocketed, my boss called me in to tell me to cut back on the Mickey-D's: uber lame, but kind of understandable. A simple change in diet for me is the equivalent of lower taxes for you. Too complicated? Let me simplify. I am the United States of America. When I drop my glasses, dust storms erupt across Texas and the Midwest. When I eat too much sweets, international tariffs are issued. When I feel depressed about something, chances are, you guys feel it too. The clouds cover the sun and for once, all the songs on the radio aren't cheery and about love or having a good time.

Most times when I get called in I have no idea what it's about, it's just a surprise that I immediately have to adapt to or else the citizens of the country I represent are gonna get screwed over. But this time, I know exactly why I'm standing outside the dark, oaken doors of the Oval Office with the all too familiar pit of dread forming in my stomach.

You see, when I get punched in the face and get a tooth knocked out, an entire naval base along with two-thousand five-hundred people is blown to bits.

Today is December 8th, 1941. Yesterday, the Japanese barraged Pearl Harbor, a naval base off the coast of Hawaii.

Holding the baby blue ice bag on my left cheek, I shuffle my heavy feet nervously on the blue carpet, awaiting the 'okay' to go inside.

Being as this was my boss, I decided to dress professionally as to not show my pitiful physical state to him. Trying to impress him by not showing up in pajamas, I had put on my green military uniform and slung my bomber jacket over it. It was the least I could do to soften the blow I was about to receive.

I switch the hand that's holding the bag once the other one got too cold and I can feel the heat of my face contrasting with the frigid relief of the ice, forming wet precipitation on my cheek. The longer I wait, the hotter and more jankey I feel when I imagine my boss, a respectable and wise man, seeing me for the first time since the attack. Guilt pitted my insides when I thought of such an admirable figure being so disappointed in me.

"Mr. America?" A powerful voice rings from behind the doors.

I jolt my head up quickly in response and holler back, "Y-Yessir?" My dirty blonde hair, sticking to my sweaty forehead, is making me uncomfortable, so I wipe it with the sleeve of my jacket.

"You may enter."

I gulp and readjust the ice bag so that it covers the black and purple lump that is the left side of my face. Taking a long, steady breath to calm my nerves, I place my free hand on the massive door in front of me and pushed.

The parting of the doors revealed to me my boss, sitting at his glorious desk where he carried out several transactions and signed prepositions given to him by Congress. Most of the vetoes and passes are somehow affected by me subconsciously, as was embarrassingly discovered when my old boss, John Quicey Adams, signed a God-awful tariff into effect that ruined his presidency in his term's dying days. I may or may not have made an illegal transaction with some northern merchants to acquire some goods that are usually more expensive when coming from overseas. Oops.

I move slowly to the center of the room where a dark oaken chair adorned with a red cushion had been set out for me.  I stood behind it, unable to force my legs to shamefully shuffle any closer to the man refusing to meet my eyes. I place my free hand on the back of the seat, adjusting my ice pack and casting my gaze to the side.